Where I travel to Italy alone

I received an email with the alarmist subject line “Women Travelers-How to stay safe in Italy.” I had never considered Italy “dangerous” in my five prior trips there but clicked through skeptically. I was headed to Mantova, Emilio-Romagna, and Milano alone in three weeks to do research for a book I’m writing. Already nervous about driving a stick-shift car, and on mountain switchbacks, I wondered what else I needed to prepare for.

“Women – you will be catcalled.” The article asserted. In 2011 I had brought my then twenty-nine year old daughter Catie to Rome, Florence, and Venice. She’s young and beautiful, and at times, I was treated differently than when I travel to Italy with my husband Matt. Yet Catie and I never received any catcalls. I wondered if I was too old or unattractive to be catcalled. I’m sure this article was meant for students and women younger and better-looking than I.

Thankfully, I was not headed to Rome or Florence where apparently all the drinks come spiked. I was to avoid public parks at all hours. Veramente? There went my picnic plans. I was admonished to quickly hand over my valuables if approached by an armed individual. I won’t even relay their Mafia warnings.

The article made every mistake I was taught not to when travel writing. It generalized about a country’s people. It stereotyped. It used thoughtless cliches. It caused unnecessary alarm. Granted, not everything written encourages travel to a destination but after reading this, I doubt anyone would want to go to Italy.

On my trip, the only pass a man made at me was an American at my home airport lounge. Before I left. The only guy who creeped me out was an American at my hotel in Milan. The only catcall I received was from an actual cat, Princy, at the wonderful B & B I stayed at in Canossa. And she slept with me.

Waiters and owners invariably said, “Ma no, non è possibile” when I asked for “Un tavolo per una persona.” They chatted with me when they had time. Alone, I was approachable. I taught them English, they taught me Italian. They inquired about Donald Trump. They gave me cooking techniques and advice on what to do, where to go. I appreciated having a table for two – I had a place to put my camera! I used new vocabulary. Matt and I have never ordered “un quartino di vino.” A quarter of a liter, it’s only eight ounces (perfect for lunch). I ordered “una mezza porzione” of the pasta starters and “una pizza piccola” for lunch.

Mantova, (Mantua in English) a UNESCO World Heritage Site, was named the Italian Capital of Culture for 2016. It’s also where one evening I drove around for an hour to find the tiny parking lot both GPS systems would not take me to. “Parking is the biggest problem we have in Mantova,” said Cristina, owner of agora, the B & B I stayed at. Both evenings there, I walked alone and felt safe. (I was also relieved not to drive!) My biggest danger in Mantova was being run into by the hordes of distracted school children on field trips, a springtime travel hazard.

I then drove up the Apennine mountains to Canossa, gratefully following my terrific guide Francesca Ferraresi on my initial ascent. In this area, I feared stalling my car on an incline, then rolling backwards into the bicyclists who must be training for the Tour de France. I stayed three nights at the peaceful Il Tempo Ritrovato with Isolina and her cat Princy. Isolina washed my laundry, ensured I was warm enough, and invited me to join the dinners she made for the Dutch couple that also stayed there. I felt like I stayed with family.

I zoomed down the mountain road, coasted through the roundabouts, and hit the autostrada for Milano. Driving in Italy should inspire fear in anyone not familiar with it. I have so much to say, I’ll blog about HOW TO DRIVE IN ITALY. Three hours later, my GPS system got me across the street from the hotel. Bus lanes and road construction prevented any approach to the front of it. Forty-five embarrassing minutes later, I found the garage behind the hotel where the nicest valet took my Fiat and gave me directions to the airport. He kindly repeated it all two days later when I left.

My hotel for two nights, the NH Collection Milano President, was in a safe neighborhood, had key-card activated elevators, employees who looked out for me, and most important, free prosecco at breakfast!!! The staff made sure I knew how to get to where I was going, which for me, was a challenge. My last evening there, I walked twenty minutes back after dinner through an area I was unfamiliar with, so I called my husband to look busy.

I got occasional glances everywhere in Italy. Mostly because my large camera was always on my hip. I never felt vulnerable. I had some fears. Driving, crashing the car, damaging the car, hitting someone else’s car, getting lost (which I did often), parking, running out of gas, gaining weight from the tiramisu I ate daily.

When I returned the rental car, the Europcar employee circled it slowly, looking for dings. “The car,” he said, “looks good.” He seemed surprised that an American woman who bought the extra damage insurance managed to return it unscathed. My fears about the car were unwarranted. I’m not sure about the weight though.